


Sunday

by Roo_Bastmoon



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roo_Bastmoon/pseuds/Roo_Bastmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over a cup of tea, Duncan tells Methos that he loves him. Methos has a hard time processing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy drabble for Danielle.

Methos liked to let his tea seep for a good twenty minutes before sipping. On that, at least, Macleod and he could agree. 

It was a rainy, comfortable Sunday. Methos was in his flannel pajamas, (perhaps one of the greatest inventions of all time) his bare feet tucked up under him as he sprawled on Duncan’s big leather couch.

They were playing chess. No. Actually, they were playing at playing chess. Duncan wasn’t paying any attention.

“Something on your mind?” he said casually, as he swiped up Duncan’s bishop.

The Scot cursed. “Not especially.”

“Hm.” 

“Honey?”

“What?” Methos blinked.

“Would you like some honey for your tea?” Duncan smiled. 

“Yes. And milk.”

Duncan shook his head. 

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. You’re just such a candy ass, sometimes, old man.”

“Macleod, this ass has launched a thousand ships.”

Duncan shot him a look and tapped his knight to C-4. “How? Breaking strong wind?”

“Oh, ha-ha.” Methos wrinkled his nose. “I like my creature comforts, but let us not forget, child, that I can still kick your ass.”

“Not in a fair fight, you can’t.”

“Semantics.”

Duncan sighed. “I love you, Methos,” he said solemnly, staring down at the board a little sadly.

Methos sat very, very still. Surely he hadn’t heard Duncan right. “Are you feeling unwell?”

The Scot looked up, and his eyes were blacker than the tea. “You are the most aggravating, self-serving, arrogant candy ass I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, thank God,” Methos said dryly. “For a minute, I thought you were getting sentimental on me.”

“I don’t think I can live without you,” Duncan continued, as if Methos hadn’t just given him a perfectly good out. “That means I love you, doesn’t it?”

Methos sniffed. “It means your romantic notions have once again gone overboard and you’ve taken leave of sense. What’s the matter, Mac, no immortal skirt to chase ’round Paris these days?”

Duncan huffed, but stayed calm. It unnerved Methos, really. “I’m serious.”

He leaned forward and cocked his head. “You’re telling me that you love me?”

“Yes.”

“That I’m selfish, arrogant, and what was the rest?”

“Candy-assed.”

“Yes, candy-assed, and yet, despite all this—or are you going to be cliché and say because of it—you love me?

Duncan poured in a few drops of milk, barely enough to cloud the water, and then let some honey drip from his spoon, frowning, thinking hard. “I’m just saying, I love you. Warts and all. Couldn’t say that about anyone else.”

Methos quirked an eyebrow. “Not even Tessa?”

Duncan shot him a look. “Tess didn’t have warts. At all.”

“Ah. I forgot. Silly me.”

“You sound offended. Are you jealous?”

“You know, Mac, as declarations of love go, this one is pretty underwhelming.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re so ridiculously Scottish about it, too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Methos sniffed again and took Duncan’s queen.

“Bugger.”

“So,” he shifted, sitting up fully, “this love thing you feel for me. Me and my candy ass. Is like filial love? Friendship love?” Methos carefully put the queen down on the table. “Or are you supposed to be in love with me?”

Duncan said nothing for quite some time. They drove Methos bat-shit insane, those weighty silences, but he’d been around Duncan long enough to know better than to push him to a hasty response. So he waited. And waited.

“Yes,” Duncan finally said.

“Yes? Yes, what?”

“Yes to all three.”

Methos stared at Duncan. The man wasn’t kidding. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yes? Oh. I said oh. Oh is what I said.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“All right then.” Duncan frowned.

“Yes.” Methos frowned.

A tense silence. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say you love me too.” Duncan moved his rook. Which was a stupid move.

“I don’t love you too, you moron.” Methos was in a really sour mood now. “How do you think I lived for five thousand years?”

“Oh, here we go.” Duncan folded his arms.

“I do not fall in love with immortals, that’s how.”

“Right. ’Cause you can control how your heart feels.” Duncan rolled his eyes. His ridiculous, stupid, sodding, black, beautiful, sad, sad, sad eyes. “I bet you think about all the ins and outs before you let yourself care about anyone, don’t you, Methos? Or do you really care at all?”

“Of course I care! How many times have I put my ass on the line—my precious, pretty, candied ass—on the line, for you, you ungrateful git? And of course I think about it. You don’t get to be—”

“Five thousand years old,” they both said—

“Without weighing the odds,” Methos finished.

“Well,” Duncan said simply. “I weighed the odds. You’re a prick. But I love you.”

“Stop saying that!” Methos flailed his arms.

“Why? It’s the truth.”

“Infant!” Methos screeched.

Duncan winced.

“I don’t know why I put up with this!”

“Because I import your expensive, candy-assed,” Duncan whispered, “beer. And I let you borrow all my stuff. And stay in my house, without being invited. And cook you delicious meals. And let you brag about all the famous people you met. Oh, and I let you beat me at chess.”

Methos relaxed. Duncan was back to banter. He could handle banter. He was good at banter. Banter was safe. “Yes, well.” He sniffed. “Besides all that, I meant.” He moved his bishop.

Duncan smiled at him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And also, you love me too.”

His mouth hung open. He couldn’t—just couldn’t—think of a scathing enough remark in time. 

Duncan reached over and shut his jaw for him. “Why else would you put your ass on the line for me? After all, you haven’t done that for anybody else in five thousand years, have you?”

Methos blinked, dumb.

“Have you?”

“I . . .”

Duncan sighed. “Be honest. Have you ever in your life offered your head to someone else? Broken up countless duels? Fought in someone else’s stead? Shot another immortal so that they wouldn’t lose a fight? And let us not forget Gina and Robert’s wedding.” Duncan sobered. “Have you ever apologized for being a Horseman . . . to anyone but me?”

Methos choked. 

“I’m sure you’ve loved before, Methos. Despite appearances, you’re a good man. I saw you with Alexa. But . . . come on. Tell me you don’t have a place for me, in your heart.”

He’d forgotten how to cry. It had been so long . . . that part of him, where tears came from? It had long since dried up, become desert. Duncan made him want to cry. 

“Well, of course I do. You’re . . . you’re a very dear friend.” It sounded lame to his own ears.

“Oh.”

He frowned. “Oh?”

“Yes. I said oh.”

“Let’s not start that again.” Methos twitched a little. He felt suddenly very cold. Like the rain had seeped into his own bones. He reached for his tea, mainly because it gave him something to do. 

Tea was extremely useful like that. The British Empire survived all its woes propped up solely with stiff lips and tea. Methos liked tea. “This is good tea.”

Duncan nodded, his hands folded under his chin. “Hm.”

He sighed. “Dammit, you’re going to brood now.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“You’re always brooding. You could be laughing out loud, and there’s some part of you, deep down inside, that’s brooding. Damned Scot.”

Duncan chuckled. “Whatever you say.” 

He fidgeted. “Listen, Mac, I appreciate the sentiment, but you can’t love me. I’m . . . me.”

Frowning, Duncan nodded slowly. “I see your point.”

Methos huffed. “I mean, I’m . . . well, I’m bloody annoying.”

“Oh, I’ll give you that.”

“And I’m underhanded. Sneaky! You could even say I’m sneaky.”

“I frequently do, sometimes even to your face.” Duncan grinned. 

“You haven’t forgotten that I killed people, right? Thousands of people?”

Duncan sobered instantly. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Right. What’s this then, charity?”

“Methos—”

“Which is to say nothing of the fact that you’ve been practicing only heterosexuality for the past four-hundred years.”

Duncan waved a hand dismissively.

“Macleod,” Methos said as if talking to a retarded child. “In case it escaped your notice? I am a man. I have a penis. And testicles. You don’t sleep with men.”

“Now you’re making assumptions.”

Methos smirked. “I’ve read all your Watcher files.”

“Then you didn’t read between the lines,” Duncan snapped. 

He paused, processing this new information. Narrowing his eyes, he hazarded a guess. “Conor?”

Duncan nodded slowly.

“Fitz?”

Another nod.

He gasped. “Richie?”

Duncan looked disgusted. “The boy was like my son.”

Methos shook his head. “Sean?”

“No.”

“Who else?”

Duncan was silent, staring at the chess board. 

“Darius,” Methos said, certain.

“Yes,” Duncan whispered. 

He quirked his lips. “You’re such a slut.”

But Duncan didn’t laugh. “I loved them all.”

“I know,” Methos said quietly. “I mean, of course you did. You’re you.”

Duncan sighed. “But I lost them all.”

Methos knew there was nothing he could say that would be of any comfort. “You’ve still got me. That’s all this is. A passing fancy. A fleeting notion.”

Duncan looked at him intensely. “I would give up every night I’d spent with them, if it meant I could have a future with you,” he said raggedly. “Do not make light of my feelings. You don’t have to return my affections, but don’t belittle them.”

Methos’ eyes widened. “Mac?”

“Anyway,” Duncan said, clearing his throat. “Check.” He tapped Methos’ king.

Suddenly, he was angry. Very, very angry. He knocked the chess board over and launched himself at Duncan, landing in his lap and cupping both his cheeks. “You wasted all this time!” Methos whispered harshly.

“I’m sorry,” Duncan whispered back.

He traced his finger across Duncan’s lower lip. “One of us is going to have to kill the other. That’s the way it is.”

Duncan teared up and nodded. “I know. There can be only one.” He looked at him sadly, smiling. “I hope it’s you.”

Methos squeezed his eyes shut. They both knew better. 

He’d made his decision the moment he met MacLeod. MacLeod was his champion, and Methos had already given him his quickening, the stupid child just hadn’t realized it yet. 

Given that, it seemed rather trite to worry about becoming lovers. How much worse could it be?

“Kiss me.”

Duncan kissed him and it was like honey on the comb, sifting. 

They made love on the leather couch, slow and sad, like it was the last time they would ever touch, ever speak, ever look on one another. It was quiet. And reverent. And it hurt in places Methos thought long since dead. 

And when it was over, and MacLeod laid his head on Methos’ chest, panting, glistening with sweat, sated, he lightly raked his nails up and down Duncan’s back and thought about how many carefully planned maneuvers it had taken, to get the man to this spot. 

Predictably, Duncan had come at him with everything he had, all passion and chivalry and childlike honesty. 

What Methos never factored into the equation was that . . . he loved Duncan, too.

He’d long ago made his choice. His quickening belonged to Duncan. But his heart, too?

Panic set in.

He waited until Duncan was asleep and then carefully inched away and silently put on his clothes. He tiptoed to the door.

“Take the spare key this time,” Duncan murmured, not bothering to open his eyes. “And come back to me when you’re ready.”

Grimacing, Methos took the spare key. “I’m just going for a walk. Clear my head.”

Duncan smiled. “Methos. I love you, even when you lie to me.”

He sighed. 

“Don’t waste too much time.”

“I was just going for a walk,” he lied. “You’re out of my beer.”

Duncan’s smile deepened. “Candy ass,” he accused, falling back asleep.

Methos melted a little bit. He shook his head, walked out the door, and put Duncan’s key on his key ring.

Their Gathering would come. But not today. 

Today was Sunday.

~*~

END


End file.
